


One of Those

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-01
Updated: 2006-09-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the grand scheme of things, a day can make all the difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Those

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in 2006.

Aziraphale wasn't in the habit of drinking alone, but there were only so many times he could catch Crowley's ansaphone before getting irritated at himself for not _knowing_ it was the ansaphone until the third go, at which point he dropped the bloody machine back in its cradle and stalked off to the cabinet.

Humans were forever going on about how they'd had One of Those Days.  For the most part, Aziraphale had always just smiled and nodded politely: in the grand scheme of things, such as it was, one day was really no different from the one before it or the one after it.  Days… _were_.  It was a difficult concept to convey to his customers, so he usually just gave up and pointed them to Self-Help.  They liked that.

There didn't seem to be adequate solutions in those books, and where books failed, alcohol was a surety.  Preferably alcohol shared with another person, but he'd live.  

Aziraphale was halfway through his last bottle of brandy when Crowley walked in without so much as a greeting.  If he squinted, the demon looked exactly as he always had except for a few points off, such as the glasses creeping down the bridge of his nose and his hair looking as if the stylist hadn't done such a good job of it this time.

"Sorry," he muttered, slinking into the chair across from Aziraphale.  "Ran late."

"You've got, um, things on your forehead," Aziraphale said, offering him the bottle.

Crowley brushed the clippings away in irritation, snatching the bottle not quite fast enough to prevent their fingers from brushing.  Aziraphale's head was already a bit fuzzy, and Crowley's skin felt like the warmth there, muddled and familiar.

"The trouble with humans," said Crowley, taking a drink, "is that they can't _see_."

"S'true," Aziraphale said, swilling his glass.  He'd started drinking for exactly that reason, or some reason similar to it.  Mostly he was just happy to see Crowley.

"I mean, _He_ bothers to give them these two little gadgets that can pick up everything within range of…anyway, a lot," Crowley said, pausing, "and half the time they just don't _use_ them properly, or go getting them damaged.  This stuff's good. More?"

Aziraphale shook his head, then waved his hand to refill the bottle.

"Mm.  Anyway, eyes," Crowley said, taking a fast swig.  "Useful.  Under-appreciated."

"To be fair, dear boy," Aziraphale said, sizing up approximately where Crowley had set the bottle on the table, reaching for it, "they can't, er…improve them the way we can."

"That's no excuse," Crowley said, shoving the bottle at him sulkily.  Maybe the hair wasn't so bad now that he'd run his fingers all through it and put it back to normal.

"I s'pose not," Aziraphale said, pouring about a quarter of the bottle on the table before giving up and doing what Crowley had done.  "They miss a bloody _lot_."

Crowley stared at him for a few seconds, frowning.

"You started early."

"You weren't home," Aziraphale said defensively, clutching the bottle to his chest.  "I have a hard time of it sometimes, too, you know.  Today was wretched."

"I've never seen you pout like that," Crowley said, fascinated.  "Continue."

"'M not pouting."

"Whatever."

"Don't you ever wish," Aziraphale said, setting the bottle back on the table, "that they'd see you?  I mean, _really_ see you?  For what you are and all that."

Crowley snorted and snatched the brandy.

"No."

"Didn't think so," Aziraphale sighed, depressed.  He'd forgotten to fill his glass, and Crowley was drinking straight from the bottle again, dribbling a bit down his chin.

"What d'you mean, exactly?" he asked, wiping his chin on his sleeve before realizing what he'd done.  He hissed at the mark on his perfect white shirt cuff, and it vanished.

"Don't you get tired of…of people thinking you're…people?"

"You're drunk, angel."

"Am not," Aziraphale insisted, "and _don't_ you?"

Crowley frowned at the bottle, scratching at the corner of the label.

"Kind of," he mumbled.

"See!"

"This conversation is getting circuitous."

"My dear, you haven't had _enough_ ," Aziraphale said.  "Listen, it's…like they wouldn't see even if, I don't know, I got out…something…and said, 'You there!  I'm…'"

"You're cracked, that's what," Crowley said, reaching across the table to pat his hand.

Aziraphale frowned.

He'd had words for this, really, but they weren't coming to him, and Crowley touching his hand like that, gentle and kind of soothing, was a distraction.

"'You there!  I'm an'angel!' Big wings and whatnot.  Buggers are blind."

"Well, that could be troublesome," Crowley said, taking a thoughtful swallow of brandy.  "We couldn't have them going around in hysterics, blowing our cover."

"But I get _tired_ ," Aziraphale heard himself whine, "of being _missed_."

Crowley set the bottle down, stared at him again, and sighed.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"I knew you'd understand," Aziraphale said, and reached across the table for Crowley's hand before he could pull it away.  "'Least _you_ see."

"I don't think I have any choice," Crowley said, blinking at Aziraphale's hand.

"'Course you do," Aziraphale said, squeezing Crowley's fingers.  "You could go."

Crowley looked up at him, distinctly offended.

"Oh, is that it?  You left three false-starts on my ansaphone just to get me out here so you could _complain_ , then—"

"No," Aziraphale said, dimly aware that he ought to be panicking.  "Jus' look, it was…they don't _see_ ," he repeated when nothing was forthcoming.  "They just… _don't_."

"And I do?" Crowley asked, staring down again.

"Yes," Aziraphale said quietly, withdrawing his hand.

"Oh," Crowley said, rising.  "D'you want to go someplace people can see us?"

"No," Aziraphale said, looking up at him.  His head had cleared just enough for him to know he was probably pleading, and that was all right, because Crowley didn't seem to be in the mood to laugh at him, and he also wanted Crowley to touch him again.

"Oh," Crowley repeated, glancing nervously around the room.  "In that case, um…"

"As long as _you_ see," Aziraphale said, realizing he'd better come to some kind of conclusion, "I think it's all right that they don't.  Um.  Would you like some tea?"

"That's all right," Crowley said, and took Aziraphale's hand, pulling him to his feet.  "Sober up, would you?  Either that or get some more brandy so I can catch up."

"Mm," Aziraphale said absently, running his thumb across the back of Crowley's hand.

"Right," Crowley said, and tugged him toward the stairs.


End file.
